


Pyre

by Klioud



Series: The Infernian's Covenant [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artistic Liberties, Bittersweet Ending, Butchering the Plot of Episode Ignis, Canon-Typical Violence, Chapter 9 - Canon Divergence, F/F, Fictional Religion & Theology, Ignoring Some Post-Release Updates, Love, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Defecation, Mentions of Drowning, Playing Fast and Loose with Established Lore/Canon, Psychological Trauma, Slow Burn, Strong Language, mentions of body horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-02-14 03:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12999180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klioud/pseuds/Klioud
Summary: OG. Canon Divergent. Post-Chapter 9. Contains Spoilers.Leviathan is not the final ordeal Lunafreya must face. The Oracle must bridge the divide between earth and heaven: she must win over the Infernian.“Know this: we tore him apart.” Shiva opens her eyes then. They are a stale and unfamiliar violet. “We did it for ourselves as much as we did it for humanity. But he loved us. Oracle— Lunafreya, helovedus.”Updates infrequently. Tags will be updated as needed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> While I prefer to write single-chapter works, I came up with this idea months ago. Ever since then, it kept re-emerging in my mind. I'm hoping that, if I keep to my rough outline, I'll complete this work before I lose all interest in it. Updates for this will probably be irregular (because I really do prefer writing one-shots). This is also my first Slow Burn™ fic, so we'll see how well that goes...
> 
> I also just want to put a kind of disclaimer here: I'm going to be playing very, very fast and loose with established lore/canon.

By now, Aranea Highwind thinks that she should be used to seeing such destruction. The sight of Tenebrae steeped in fire should not be astonishing. The almost tangible stench of shit and all things burning should be familiar to her. In her experience, Niflheim preferred to take a sledgehammer to any pesky flies. It was common practice. But even then, Aranea had witnessed worse devastation in Altissia during Leviathan's rampage. That experience alone should either have broken her or desensitized her to things such as this. At least, she thinks it should have.

But seeing Tenebrae fall is somehow different. She finds it hard to look right at the destruction. Finds it harder to look away. Aranea has never seen Tenebrae before. Now it is the only chance she will ever get. 

The topography of Tenebrae is like nothing she has ever seen anywhere else. Its numerous isles defy gravity in ways she has only ever dreamed of. On one of these islands is Fenestala Manor. It is easy to identify by its sheer size. It burns titian in the night. Smoke pours out of it like it is one of the smokestacks back home in Gralea. That comparative alone tells her that Tenebrae has already burned to the ground. Its ashes lie scattered across this train platform. Aranea should be familiar with all noises ashes like these make too. She has seen people cry and beg before. Seen them hurl strings of curse words at the sky. How they hurl words and more at each other. She has seen before the vacant expressions that she sees now.

But she is not used to them trading these particular words between them: _Oracle. Princess. Lunafreya._

Lunafreya will be devastated when she finds out. It has not even been thirty-six hours since Aranea had last seen her. The princess had asked Aranea to drop her off in the Ghorovas Rift without providing any explanation. Aranea just assumed it was an Oracle thing. It hardly mattered to her then. She had only been asked by a pompous ass to make sure that Lunafreya made it out of Altissia alive. 

Just hours later, news of that same pompous ass's impending execution hit the airwaves. Her communications technician had caught wind of the attack on Tenebrae shortly after that.

Aranea does not know the princess well, but it is hard to believe that she would be anything but devastated. Noctis clearly is.

He looks at the burning manor with his jaw slightly unhinged. It is enough to let her know that the sight has hit him in the gut. Then he jams his hands into his pockets and tears his eyes from the ruined view. Noctis reminds her of a spent bullet casing. There is something bent about his form and expression. Something empty.

Aranea realizes then that Noctis must think Lunafreya is dead. Before the announcement of the ex-commander's coming execution, most radio stations had been on about nothing else but the wreckage of Altissia and the Oracle's passing. She thinks it is premature of them to declare her dead without a body. But she gets why they assume she is. Altissia was hardly more than a collection of boats and roofless houses by the time Leviathan was finished with it. Truth be told, Lunafreya nearly did not make it out alive.

But she had not pegged this pretty boy as a pessimist. When she glances at his miserable-looking entourage, she finds they are down a man. Blondie is no where in sight. So the prince could probably use some good news. 

_If you see him, I ask that you do not tell him about me,_ she remembers being told. _He must heed their call._

Aranea sucks in a bit of her lower lip and presses two teeth to it.

On the radio, those who spoke of the Oracle lauded her for her kindness and her grace. Testimonials from those she had healed claimed her presence alone was a kind of balm. Aranea had seen her featured in magazines and newspapers. In them, the princess had always appeared just as Aranea thinks Tenebrae would have if it were not burning now: like she had stepped out into Eos from a wonderful dream.

In the two weeks they had travelled together, Aranea did not tell Lunafreya that she owns three recordings of the Oracle's sermons that were broadcast on radio. Aranea did let Lunafreya know that she had never put much stock in the Astrals or in the cult of the Oracle. But she said nothing about how Lunafreya's soothing voice helps her to fall asleep on rough nights.

 _He must heed their call,_ Lunafreya had said.

There was not much she could glean from Lunafreya's vague explanation. If it could even be called that. But one thing is clear: Noctis is important. He has some kind of greater purpose. Only, it is hard to believe that when she looks at him as he is now. Inexplicably, she remembers how calmly Lunafreya had said that. Remembers how serene her expression had been when she had descended the platform down onto Gralea snow.

Lunafreya should be devastated by all this. She should. Or maybe she will not even bat an eye. Aranea cannot help but wonder just how many lives Lunafreya has saved over the years. And how many she has seen extinguished. That normally does something to a person. But Lunafreya is not just some human: she is the Oracle. Aranea is not sure what the difference between the two things might be. Or what that difference might mean. A part of her digs into her memory and looks among the testimonials that claim the Oracle is kind for one that calls her empathetic. But she cannot remember any of those testimonials perfectly.

Aranea does what she can for Noctis. Biggs and Wedge do too. Her trusted subordinates give Noctis a ride on the northbound train for Gralea. She sees the remnants of Tenebrae boarded onto the southbound one before she takes off in her airship again. 

Hundreds of thousands of feet above the ground, Aranea wishes she could let out a sigh of relief now. But she cannot. Instead, she cusses under her breath. Curses sentimentality and all that it does to her.


	2. Chapter 2

By now, Lunafreya Nox Fleuret thinks that she should not be surprised by the enormity of the Astrals. Titan, Ramuh, and Leviathan had all been larger than even her family's manor. That Shiva's corpse should be just as great in size as they all were should not strike her as anything odd. At the very least, she thinks it should not.

But somehow, it still does. There had been a largeness to the other Astrals that was born from more than just their physicality: they had been so _alive._ She had heard them speak. Seen them think. Lunafreya had witnessed their actions. The magnitude of their spirits had been larger than their bodies.

Shiva does not possess this quality in death. It is the absence of that which she finds tremendous. Before now, Lunafreya had never seen a dead god herself. In Altissia, she had lost consciousness shortly after healing Noctis's numerous wounds. So the Hydraean remains a terrible marvel in her mind. Lunafreya knows that there had been many photographs taken and published of the Glacian's corpse, but the clergy of the Oracle had declared it sacrilegious to view them.

It feels that way now.

Lunafreya hesitantly tugs off a mitt and presses her fingertips against Shiva's bare foot. Unsurprisingly, the Astral's skin is cold to the touch. She suspects that this has less to do with the environment and more to do with the nature of the Astral herself.

The foot looks largely intact. As does the rest of Shiva. Lunafreya is not astonished by any of this. It might be a corpse, but it is an Astral's corpse. It is only logical that her body would not rot in the same manner that a mortal's does. No Astral's corpse should. It does not matter that Shiva had died so many years ago. It does not matter that she had been felled by human weaponry. Shiva had been a god.

She wonders now how the god had died. Leviathan snakes her way through her thoughts. Shiva might have been just as fierce and wondrous. Or perhaps not. Her mother, Gentiana, and all the disciples of her family's line had taught her that the Glacian valued mortal lives more than any other one of the Six. So perhaps Shiva would have stayed her hand when she was ambushed by the Niflheim army.

The Hydraean slithers lightning-fast across her mind. After the Revelation in Altissia, it is difficult to believe that any one of the Hexatheon would ever quietly accept their end.

Sliding her mitt back on, Lunafreya starts toward Shiva's head. Her fleece-lined and waterproof pants trap the sweat against her skin as she snowshoes her way over the snow. Her perception of time is skewed. It feels like it takes an hour to walk from the Glacian's heel to her ankle. Lunafreya can just make out the pillars of the raised railway in the distance. Perhaps taking a train here would have been faster. But she supposes that she would have been too high up then to climb down. And a part of her is almost entirely certain that whatever is calling her here is on ground-level. Lunafreya has never possessed a sense of cardinal direction. She could not point out North from South. Or East from West. Her internal compass belongs to the Astrals and their Messengers alone. 

The Astrals she feels in her hair. Their Messengers she feels as her fingers.

Right now, it is as though she is missing two on her left hand. Lunafreya has not seen either Pryna or Gentiana since the Hydraean's Revelation. Umbra alone travels with her. He coils around her body at night to keep her warm. His body is far warmer than a dog's should be. It is only because of him that she has made it so far in this icy rift. Glancing over her shoulder, she sees that he is still only a few metres behind her. Somehow, his paws do not break through the surface of the snow. She supposes that is one of the many advantages Messengers are afforded.

Although she is glad for Umbra's company, she cannot help but wish the other two were here as well. 

She is almost to Shiva's knee. The snow suddenly comes down so much harder than before. It had not taken Lunafreya long to discover that this region was prone to drastic changes in weather. She does not doubt that this is the doing of the Glacian's remains. It had been this unruly weather that had prevented the ex-Commodore Highwind from taking Lunafreya directly to Shiva's remains. Lunafreya could only ask Highwind to let her off where she could.

The effect the dead god has on the weather does not surprise Lunafreya. The Astrals turn emotion into a tangible force. Leviathan had split the sea open with the sheer power of her rage. It has been weeks since then, but Lunafreya can still feel splinters of that anger in her lungs and legs. These parts of her shake slightly to this day. It should be imperceptible to anyone but herself and Umbra. Highwind had certainly not seen it.

She supposes the knife wound had been the more obvious injury.

It would have been a fatal one if not for the work of the airship's on-board medics and her own power. That she managed to elude so certain a death still bewilders her. She thought that she had exhausted her power when she called on every glaive to come to Noctis's aid. 

Lunafreya had thought that she was going to die.

But she is alive. This is must be kept a secret. The advantages of being pronounced dead are too great for her to relinquish just yet. Being thought dead means that she does not have to worry about Niflheim or its chancellor searching for her. The latter of the two is the more worrisome.

The Chancellor Izunia is a mystery she has not solved. He feels like a familiar song she does not quite know the lyrics to. Lunafreya remembers the moment when she had tried to disperse the Starscourge in him. That had not been an act of kindness on her part. Doing so had allowed her to probe the depths of his corruption. Her power returned to her that he was a thing practically indistinguishable from the Starscourge. That his muscles and bones were solids heated by corruption into a like liquid.

She does not understand who he is that he can be so soaked in Starscourge and still look human.

The Starscourge in him had been old. By definition, all Starscourge is old. It is all the same vintage. But her power grants her insight as to how long it has festered inside of a particular living thing. In Izunia's case, the corruption did not rot away at him. It simply _was._ The chancellor must be so much older than he looks. 

The Glacian's knee is driven against the side of a hill. Lunafreya is getting closer to it. Shiva's bare stomach forms a ceiling so far overhead that it does little to keep the snowfall off of her. When she looks up, Lunafreya sees the evidence of Niflheim's work. Missiles and shrapnel jut out of Shiva's torso. It looks odd as the skin does not swell where it meets the weaponry. Like they are decoration more than anything else. 

Dropping her eyes, Lunafreya continues towards the nearest knee. She has so many questions and no one to ask. Umbra has no answers for her. But maybe whoever is calling her here might have them. It is unclear if they are Astral or Messenger. It is a kind of sharp wind: it tousles her hair and chills the joints in her fingers. 

And somewhere else, she can feel the Draconian calling Noctis.

Finally. She makes it to the crest of the hill. It gives her an unobstructed view of the shallow basin ahead and the enormous stack of toppled trees in it. A humanoid thing cuts a dark shape against the wood.

Lunafreya is suddenly very aware of her own fingers.

Picking up the pace, Lunafreya resists the urge to call out. Something in her tells her that she should not be the first to speak. So she just stops a metre or two short of what is clearly the base of a giant pyre and does not say a word. 

Gentiana turns to face her with open eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

The Messenger looks as serene as ever. Not a hair on her head is out of place. She wears the same attire as she has always worn throughout all of Lunafreya's life. It leaves her toes, fingers, chest and face exposed to the cold. But her skin is as perfect as ever. Lunafreya could say that this is simply another advantage Messengers are afforded. Except that Gentiana is not who she thought she was.

She should have known. There is a thrum in one of her fingers. Something cards gently through her hair. She should have always known.

“Oracle,” Gentiana says. The word is like a tangible thing. It hits the base of Lunafreya's throat. It pushes a word out of her mouth.

“When—?”

Gentiana sighs. It sounds almost relieved.

“Since you were born,” she answers. “Since your mother was born. And her mother before her. Our Covenant has always began with an Oracle's first breath.”

Lunafreya feels it before she sees it. It is a hand pressed firmly on her scalp. Gentiana is unravelling. Fabric recedes into metallic ornaments and periwinkle flesh. Black hair moves as though it were in water. She watches as the strands braid themselves together high above her head. Then it flash-freezes white. Lunafreya's hands go cold in her mitts.

The Glacian stands before her. 

Unlike the body on hands and knees over them, Shiva is only a little taller than Lunafreya herself. But there is not a doubt in her mind that this is the Astral herself. This knowledge recolours all her memories. Lunafreya recalls a time when she had asked survivors of Lucis to organize themselves by the severity of their injuries. Two men with blood-caked faces began to shove each other then. She was just about to demand that they come to their senses when Gentiana had appeared. The Messenger had always been something like a cold wind. Her presence alone had caused the men to curse and stumble backward from each other. Ending the fight.

Lunafreya goes back further into her memories. As a child, she had asked Gentiana why two people were needed to combat the Starscourge. Had asked why the Oracle and the King of Kings could not just be the same person. _The Astrals once placed their hopes in such a person,_ Gentiana had told her. _But too many threads were tied to his hands._ Her eyes had opened then. Lunafreya remembers so clearly how Gentiana looked over Lunafreya's head at something invisible to her. _Every finger broke, and every string snapped with them._

Lunafreya has revisited this memory more often than she would like to admit. It has never changed in all her years of recollection. Yet some part of her yearned for it to. It held onto the hope that in reviewing it she would find a new answer. Find a way to spare Noctis the destiny the Crystal had chosen for him.

But now this memory is imbued with new significance.

A question forms in her mouth, _Why did you not tell me?_ It never leaves her. The answer is already in her possession. Gentiana had given it to her a long time ago. 

So she steps to stand beside Shiva. They face the incomplete pyre together. It is hard to imagine that anything could burn an Astral. Human weaponry could only kill Shiva. Nothing had been able to disfigure her. It is hard to say what this pyre might mean then. The only thing she knows is that Shiva would not be here if it meant nothing.

“The Draconian is calling Noctis,” Lunafreya says. Glances at Shiva's face for any expression. No one has ever told her that the Astrals can communicate with each other telepathically. But she cannot rule out the possibility. Yet Shiva looks almost surprised by the news.

“They are too impatient,” Shiva says. Lifts her chin up as she gazes toward the ceiling of her own corpse's stomach. “We all have been too impatient.”

These words have a physicality to them too. They drop as dense as a stone in her stomach.

“Have you formed a Covenant with him yet?” Lunafreya asks. The Astral lowers her gaze again. Steeples her fingers together.

“Not yet.”

They look at the pyre again. Tugging off her mitt, Lunafreya reaches out toward one of the logs. Stops just before touching it. She wants permission. It comes in the shape of Shiva's right hand against the backside of her own. Her hand is pressed against the wood. Each of the Astral's icy fingers slots into place next to her own. Heavens, Shiva's hand is freezing.

“ _He_ did this,” the Astral says. But there is something in her voice that sounds too tired to belong to a goddess.

“Who?” Lunafreya is breathless. Her hand burns from the cold. Her heart does too. Their hands like this are too intimate. Gentiana had never been one for much physical contact. She had allowed Lunafreya to lean against her at times. To rest her head against her knee as she stroked Lunafreya's hair. But they had never once embraced each other. Or held hands. Evidently, the difference between Gentiana and Shiva is in more than just their appearances.

This is too familiar. It is like they share one hand between them. Lunafreya knows that humans were made in the image of one of the Astrals. She cannot help but wonder whether humanity had then been carved from ice. 

“Who would build me a pyre?” It is neither an accusation or a taunt: it is an invitation.

The answer comes to Lunafreya immediately.

“The Infernian.” She turns her head slightly to look at Shiva's face. The Astral is just behind her so that her right arm follows along Lunafreya's own. “But why?”

Shiva shuts her eyes. She almost looks like Gentiana then.

“It is one of his duties, as the Pyreburner,” Shiva says. “Though that he would choose to fulfil them now...”

The Glacian slides her hand from Lunafreya's knuckles to the cuff of her sleeve before dropping aside. Lunafreya turns her back to the pyre to face her. Absently, she pulls her mitt back on. The back of her hand still sears.

Shiva raises her right hand to Lunafreya's cheek. It is so very cold. Even still, Lunafreya just manages to resist the instinct to tilt away from her hand.

“Know this: we tore him apart.” Shiva opens her eyes then. They are a stale and unfamiliar violet. “We did it for ourselves as much as we did it for humanity. But he loved us. Oracle— Lunafreya, he _loved_ us.”

Lunafreya cannot help but flinch when Shiva's fingernails tip slightly into her cheek. With a pained expression, Shiva removes her hand. Flexes her fingers in the empty air between them. It makes the spots on her cheek burn.

“He betrayed you.” Her voice trembles from the dread she feels creeping up inside her.

“He did,” Shiva says. “But what do you see here?” The goddess gestures upwards. Lunafreya follows it to Shiva's stomach. The human-made missiles look so colourless against her bluish skin. 

“This is not something he will forgive.”

Her stomach drops again. Out of all of the Six, the Infernian had always been the least real to her. It once felt like he was nothing more a boogeyman invented by the Oracular priesthood to scare children into behaving. He was said to be the cruelest and most fickle of a group of otherwise benevolent deities. But Lunafreya had discovered that the Astrals were far from benign. Only Shiva resembles what she has been told. Even then, she had not been above using deceit. 

Lunafreya does not want to think about what the worst of the Hexatheon would be like. 

“Must I fight him?” It is nearly impossible to keep the terror from her voice. Her eyes rove over the weaponry impaling Shiva's stomach. The other Astrals had been so unwilling to cooperate. Noctis overcoming their Revelations meant that he became their anchor to Eos: they could not exist independently from him. It had been no wonder that they had fought so ferociously then. It is likely safe to assume that the Infernian would be more than uncooperative.

“I have asked myself that same question,” Shiva says quietly. There is pity in her voice. She is not sure if it is meant for Lunafreya or herself. Or for Ifrit.

Half-turning, Lunafreya looks at the pyre. It does not look wide enough to hold Shiva's body. But it is incomplete. Perhaps Ifrit would have extended it so that it could fit her easily. A pyre like that might burn for months. If nothing else, that thought suggests the depth of his feelings.

When she looks at Shiva, she finds the goddess with her eyes half-lidded. The edges of her mouth are down. Lunafreya knows that Gentiana had never told her the full truth. But Lunafreya can understand why someone would build such a monument to her passing.

“I will have to ask him that myself, then,” Lunafreya says. She sounds brave. Far braver than she feels. The Glacian blinks a few times. Her lips tremble. As though she does not know if she should smile or not.

“Yes,” she says. Her mouth decides on a smile. “I suppose you will.”

Their eyes meet. There is not a speck of green in Shiva's eyes. The goddess lifts her hand. Curls her fingers under Lunafreya's chin and brushes her thumb over her lower lip.

“If only he could see what I see,” she says. Her thumb settles on the corner of Lunafreya's mouth. Lunafreya would flinch away if she were not so entranced by how Shiva's smile sags. “If only he had known you then...”

It is too cold. Unintentionally, Lunafreya lets out a low hiss. The Glacian slowly removes her hand. There is something about her slowness that makes the space between them feel so much greater than before. Something about her slowness that makes Lunafreya wonder just how detached the Astrals are from their creations.

Shiva has never seemed more like a stranger to her than she does now. 

“Where can I find him?” Lunafreya is desperate to change the subject. To get her mind off of her chilled skin.

Something approaches them.

Umbra. Lunafreya had almost forgotten about him. In his mouth, he carries the Trident of the Oracle. Her eyes go round at the sight. She thought the trident had been lost to the Altissian sea.

Stopping by Shiva's side, Umbra lets the goddess take the trident from him. The Glacian runs a finger along the curved edge of one of its prongs.

“I could not say. Perhaps you should ask one of his Messengers.”

Umbra turns his head to nip at his own shoulder. Lunafreya watches him. She has met so few of the Messengers. It is said that there are twenty-four of them in all. But Umbra, Pryna, and Gentiana had been the only ones she had ever met. She had caught sight of Carbuncle exactly once while Noctis had been recovering in her family's manor. Carbuncle had been so suspicious of Lunafreya. The Messenger vanished upon catching sight of her. She never saw Carbuncle again.

The priesthood had no compendium to provide her with information on the Messengers. She does not even know who Umbra and Pryna belong to. Neither had been forthcoming with their allegiances.

Suddenly, Shiva looks upward. Lunafreya looks up too. Nothing looks any different from before.

“The King of Light,” Shiva whispers. The urgency in her voice makes Lunafreya shiver. She can almost feel the Altissian sea crashing into her lungs again.

“Go to him,” Lunafreya says. Shiva makes to hand the trident to her. But Lunafreya shakes her head. “He will need it more than I.”

It only sounds like the truth. Lunafreya yearns to take the trident into her hands. To hold it between her and her next task. The slightly dubious look Shiva gives her makes Lunafreya want to be angry. But she is too tired to be angry. She should be allowed these half-truths. They have fed her nothing but such all her life. 

“Should I tell him....?”

Lunafreya shakes her head.

“Noctis cannot afford distraction. Go to him.”

The Glacian nods. Her hand raises toward Lunafreya again. Then stalls in the air. Perhaps she can sense the chasm between them: the divide between immortal and mortal.

Then she shuts her eyes and lips. Vanishes.

Lunafreya stares at the space the Glacian used to occupy. After a long moment, she turns to face the pyre.

She thinks it tells her to _turn back._


	4. Chapter 4

Umbra led Lunafreya to a small mountainside hamlet. It looked like there were no more than twenty buildings to make up this community. When she first stepped between them, Lunafreya could almost feel every eye in the whole village snap to her. Their suspicion was not unexpected. The people of the tiny villages in the hinterlands of her own kingdom had been just as guarded until they heard her name.

Yet she did not believe that her name would inspire the same confidence or awe in these strangers. 

Although they are wary, they take her in. Some ask her if she is from the capital. They mention that the Gralean radio stations all play the same message on repeat: _All travel to and from Gralea has been suspended until further notice. This broadcast will repeat until the situation has been resolved. The Imperial Security Bureau thanks you for your cooperation._ They mention that they have not been able to contact their relatives who live and work in the city.

They mention that everything has gone topsy-turvy ever since they executed the ex-Commander Ravus Nox Fleuret.

Or he was supposed to have been killed. No one in this place knows if he is truly dead. His execution was to have been broadcast live on both radio and television. But the only thing that the capital now broadcasts is that warning. It has looped for days.

This all does little to dislodge her heart from her throat. She _must_ go to him. For twelve years, Ravus had been just like this Gralean broadcast: an echo. A thing that relives the same spent seconds again and again. Lunafreya believes she knows which moment he has been trapped in all this time. Can still remember how his expression collapsed in on itself when she and the royals of Lucis had turned their backs on him.

Even still, Ravus would still come to her aid. He has already proven that to her. She must do the same for him.

Lunafreya asks nearly every villager she sees to take her to Gralea. Every single one of them refuses. 

“Didn't you hear what they said?” a villager says. “Gralea's a no-go.”

So she asks if she may borrow a snowmobile or car instead.

“No bloody way you're taking mine,” says another villager. Practically spits at her. “Bloody outrageous. Just who do you think you are?”

It might be pointless to reveal herself as the Oracle. She suspects that they have only ever heard of her title in passing. Suspects that she no longer looks the part. These people are unlikely to revere her when she has never done anything for them in return.

But she tells them anyway. To prove herself to them, Lunafreya mends by touch alone the broken finger of a woman in front of as many witnesses as she could gather together in the street. 

“Please,” she begs. Her heartbeat shakes her whole body. “The people of Gralea will need my aid.” 

A few of the witnesses stumble backwards. One of them falls flat on his back onto a roadside snowbank. Lunafreya surveys the array of facial expressions before her: some look mortified. Two look mad. The woman whose hand she healed looks sympathetic.

“I'll take you,” she says. Places her unbroken hand over Lunafreya's own.

“Thank you,” Lunafreya says. Her heart begins to slide back down her throat.

The weather chooses that exact moment to turn. In a matter of seconds, Lunafreya can hardly see a foot ahead of her for all the snow that comes down from the sky. The woman pulls her into her own home and sets Lunafreya by the lit fireplace with a promise to take her once the weather clears.

Only the weather does not clear.

She knows now that Shiva's corpse had changed the weather patterns for this region. Wonders how long it will take before her influence over the Ghorovas Rift fades. Lunafreya's eyes wander over to the fireplace. The logs crackle under the weight of fire. Perhaps that is the reason why the Infernian had been tasked with cremating the Six: their bodies bleed power over the world long after their passing. Cremation might put an end to that.

A part of her thinks she should hate how immersed she is in the Six and their prophecy. Her brother could be dying or already dead somewhere in the grimy streets of Gralea. He could be something worse than dead by now. One half of her being screams at that.

The other half of her wonders where Umbra has disappeared to.

It is well into the night when Lunafreya considers stealing a snowmobile. She has no trident or companion. Nothing but her power to pull pain and worse from out of things. But that part of her begs her to do _something._

Then the woman discovers Lunafreya putting on her winter boots.

“Don't go.” The woman slowly descends the stairs. Like she fears the sound of her footsteps might startle Lunafreya. “It's too dangerous.” Lunafreya's fingers tug at a shoelace. With her head bent over her boots, Lunafreya listens to the woman tell her how a blizzard can hide the edge of a cliff from sight. How fissures in the earth crack open on occasion. Listens to the woman tell her how she has lost family and friends who assumed they knew the ins and outs of this land. “We just live on this land,” she says. “It knows us far better than we do it.”

The woman goes quiet. Lunafreya pulls at her shoelace again. Finds her heart is no longer in her throat. At some point, it fell into the pit of her stomach.

In front of the fire again, Lunafreya curls in on herself and falls asleep.

* * *

In her dreams, the Altissian sea is impossibly thick. Its current pulls her down ever further from the glow of sunlight overhead. _The_ ring nips at the palms of her hands. Lunafreya knows that it was never hers to wear. Only, he is but a child in this space. Her hold on the ring closes tighter.

He is to be the King of Light. If only his heart could bear it. He is to be hammered silver: beat again and again into proper form.

She had hoped her heart could endure it too.

Lunafreya recognizes the Altissian water for the hammer it is. It beats words out of her. _Farewell, dear Noctis,_ she tells him. Because this is the end for her. It is difficult to believe that all the hours of prayer, all the mornings spent in study, all the sermons she delivered had led her to here. Difficult to believe that every wound she drew pain out of and every pain she could not spare herself from had led her to this moment. All of her had hoped she had been meant for more than just this errand. Lunafreya had hoped she would be more than just a ring-bearer.

 _I wanted to save you,_ he says. Her heart dies at how his voice breaks. So she does not have it in her to tell him that they were never meant for that. Once, she believed it might have been possible for them to pass through every ordeal unscathed. But that had been a different Lunafreya. That Lunafreya had died on the same sword as her mother had. Now she knows better: both she and Noctis are to be nothing more than knives. Meant only to carve away whatever of each other is not the _Oracle_ or _King of Kings._

The sunlight is so terribly far away. It seems so unfair that she cannot feel it as she dies. Yet Lunafreya is well-acquainted with such cruelties by now. She has taken its manifestation from out of the bodies of others too many times not to recognize it.

The Infernian had wrought the Starscourge. Or so she had been told. She wonders what cruelty she might face from him. It is a peculiar thought to have as she sinks.

Lunafreya wakes at that. The thought is no longer peculiar when she finds herself lying before the fireplace. The fire is in its death throes. Her eyes go to the blackened remains of the wood. It reminds her of her brother writhing in pain on the Citadel floor. Then she looks to the nearest window and sees the sky still dark from the storm.

Ravus is dead. He must be. The only other option is that the Starscourge has claimed him. Lunafreya supposes she should be afraid that she sees cruelty as synonymous with reality. There should be a point where the body count is too high to continue. There should be a price she is not willing to pay to fulfill her calling.

She can feel the strings tied around every joint in her hands. They cut off her circulation. The half of her that is human wants to pull against them. Snap every one.

But Ravus is already spent.

Lunafreya likes to think she can recognize a pattern when she sees one. So she knows that Noctis will be next. Before she had met with Shiva, she had felt the Draconian speak directly into her mind. The force of their voice had made Lunafreya hug her own stomach. Bahamut had needed Noctis. Immediately. 

Between her and the Draconian, she knows that Noctis would have picked her. It had fallen on her not to pick him.

Lunafreya slips back into sleep and that same dream. The ring does not hurt in her hands any longer. She passes it to the child anyways. In its absence, her hands burn. Her thoughts do too. They are too hot to keep inside. Lunafreya tells him, _Do not be like me._

She dreams herself into something inanimate. Something that flashes silver. Dreams herself into something that does not care if ever feels the sunlight again.

She dies.

But Lunafreya had not drowned in Altissia. When she wakes again, it is to a profound sense of déjà vu. Weeks ago now, Lunafreya had woken up from the roiling sea to a stern-looking man in a stained scrub. Next to him had stood a woman with hair the same colour as bone. Lunafreya had been told that the woman had rescued her. She could believe that just by looking at her. That person had looked like a weapon that could slice water clean into two parts.

Perhaps she can also cut a blizzard into two.

That same woman looms over her now. Umbra stands off to the side about where the surgeon had been. Highwind looks cross. Gives Lunafreya an unimpressed once-over. Yet there is something about the curl of her lip that makes Lunafreya thinks she is not truly irritated.

“Well, good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”


	5. Chapter 5

Umbra had found Highwind out in the Niflheim arctic. The Messenger made himself known to Highwind by stepping into the path of her snowmobile. It had been nearly impossible to see more than a metre or two ahead. So Highwind had been driving very slowly through the blizzard.

“He's lucky I wasn't going any faster,” Highwind says. Squats down to give Umbra a scratch behind the ears. “Or maybe it wasn't luck. He's not a normal dog, is he?”

Lunafreya smiles at Umbra as he leans into Highwind's hand.

“He has always been clever,” she says. It is a quality of his she relies upon.

They are in front of the lit fireplace. Highwind had tossed in another log and coaxed the embers back to life again. Umbra sits on the floor between them.

“So,” Highwind says. Before Lunafreya can suggest that they make use of the nearby armchairs, Highwind lies down on her back over the floor. Flings her arms wide. “Find what you were looking for?”

Lunafreya hesitates.

“Yes.”

The word sounds better out loud than in her mind. She almost suspects that Highwind thinks so too. Seconds pass in silence. Perhaps Highwind is waiting for her to elaborate. But then the soldier thumps a palm against the rug.

“My crew's coming to pick me up, if you're looking for a ride.”

“That would be appreciated,” says Lunafreya.

Umbra scoots closer to the fireplace then. The cold never seemed to affect him much. Regardless, Lunafreya knows he prefers to be in warm climates. Since childhood, she had always tried to give him a blanket at night to sleep under. Summers in Tenebrae were less than mild.

Something moves in her peripheral vision. Lunafreya thinks it might be Highwind waving her hand. The motion attracts only her eyes. Her mind is elsewhere.

In many ways, Pryna is Umbra's opposite. She had enjoyed Tenebrae's cool summer nights and even chillier winters. Their trek through Leide had been difficult for the Messenger. Not that she ever protested. But Lunafreya could tell that the heat taxed her. Pryna had liked to lie in whatever shade she could.

Once again, Lunafreya finds herself wondering to whom they might belong. It is hard to believe that they might answer to separate gods. It is even harder to believe that one or both of them might serve the Infernian. Nonetheless, she cannot rule out the possibility. Her intuition has failed her so far: she had once suspected that Gentiana was a Messenger of Bahamut. Gentiana had always been hesitant to touch the Trident of the Oracle herself. It had seemed obvious that her hesitancy was born from reverence for the Draconian. But Lunafreya knows better now. It must have been odd for a god to hold the instrument of another.

“...hear me? Hey, Eos to Princess.”

It sounds like someone is snapping their fingers. Lunafreya blinks sharply. Highwind and her raised hand come into focus. 

“My apologies,” she says, “I was distracted.”

Highwind's eyes widen a little. Almost as if she is surprised. Then her eyebrows lower over them.

“I was saying that I can drop you off at Cartanica,” Highwind says.

 _Cartanica._ Lunafreya has not passed through that station in a very long time. Imperial officers had once accompanied her on a trip to heal a Niflheim aristocrat from the Succarpe region. The officers did not let her out of their sight during their short layover at Cartanica. Lunafreya can just barely remember the feel of a rusted railing under her hands.

“May I ask where you are headed to next?”

“Gralea.”

The name makes her heart pound twice. Placing her palms against the floor, Lunafreya leans back on them. It takes her a moment to notice how the silence is stretching again. She should say something. Should ask about him. Only, the distance between her lungs and the rest of her has stretched too.

“What's the latest you've heard?” Highwind asks. It feels like there is a hole in the side of Lunafreya's throat. Words and oxygen escape from it unused.

Lunafreya could pretend to misunderstand and ask for clarification. There is a chance that Highwind is intending to discuss something else entirely. But this is not permissible: she has never been able to afford intentionally misunderstanding anything. 

“The capital is under quarantine,” Lunafreya says. Folds her hand in her lap.

“Anything else?” Highwind says flatly as she sits herself up. Their eyes meet. It takes Lunafreya some time to find any words to use at all.

“I... was informed by the people here that there was an, announcement, made,” Lunafreya says. Glances at the fire. “The imperial commander was to be executed.”

Her throat tightens on those last syllables.

“Huh.”

Lunafreya turns her eyes to Highwind again. Finds her lips a taut line. Then Highwind's eyes meet her own. Forcefully. A frown emerges on Highwind's face. She is looking for something, Lunafreya knows. For weakness, maybe. For a sign of fatigue. Automatically, Lunafreya straightens her posture.

“Would you know if he was dead?” Highwind asks then. There is something almost gentle to her voice. Even still, the fingers of Lunafreya's left hand curl in on themselves under the cover of her right.

“Pardon?” she says. “I'm not sure what your question is.”

“If he— you, being the Oracle and all. Can you sense when people die?”

What an odd idea. But perhaps it is not so unreasonable a question when she considers who is posing it. Highwind does not seem like someone who would have listened to any of her radio sermons or seen any of her televised interviews. 

Lunafreya shakes her head no.

That seems to only make Highwind's frown deepen. For some reason, it must be the wrong answer. Even if it is the truth.

“Why do you ask?” Lunafreya says. Because she supposes a grave is never deep enough. Highwind stiffens visibly. Drops her eyes away. 

“Guess I wanted you to check up on some people for me.”

Lunafreya wonders who. The most likely answer would be Highwind's crew. In their brief time together, Lunafreya has seen Highwind verbally rip apart an on-board engineer for thinking he _could half-ass the fucking turbine check I ordered and think I wouldn't notice?_ Yet she has also seen Highwind press her forehead against a technician's own. Has heard her say to him that his _home didn't sink, it's right here, kid, right here._

“My apologies,” Lunafreya says. “I can only sense the gods.” And the Messengers. Though it seems unimportant to mention that.

Highwind shrugs.

“It'd be a shitty power anyways.”

Highwind says nothing more and twists in place to watch the fire. Lunafreya combs Umbra's hair with her eyes. Right now, she cannot feel any one of the Six. Not even Bahamut. The Draconian had been so desperate for Noctis to answer their call. It had felt like someone was dragging her by the roots of her hair. 

“I'm going to be straight with you,” Highwind says suddenly. “Tenebrae got hit. Hard. We got as many as we could out and shipped them to Lucian territory.”

It feels like there is not enough air in this room for her to draw breath. For a moment, Lunafreya is completely still in mind and body.

Then her thoughts move like bullets fired from a gun.

The world believes that she is dead. The advantages this lie afforded her had been numerous. But she should have known such fortune would cost her. Any protection that her name or title gave the people of Tenebrae had died with her. She had hoped that Ravus's rank would be enough to shield their people from daemons and gunfire.

Her thoughts embed themselves in the walls of her mind. The impact is enough to make her flinch. 

Highwind does not look at her. Half of Lunafreya is glad for it. The other thinks about the technician and Highwind. The technician's expression had been so crumpled a thing. As if the Hydraean herself had struck him.

For three seconds, Lunafreya allows herself to wish that she could feel a forehead against her own.

“I see,” she manages to say. Laces her fingers together. “Thank you, Highwind, for saving my people.”

Highwind bobs her head. Only glances at her from the corner of her eye. Their gazes meet very briefly. Lunafreya finds it easier to look at Umbra than at Highwind. 

Minutes pass. The fire alone speaks in this silence. Lunafreya tries not to listen to it. It speaks in such a small voice. But she has seen what fire can become. What fire can do.

This is neither the time nor place to grieve: that would be indulgent. Tears would tarnish her inside and outside.

“I-uh, saw Noctis,” Highwind says. The name compels Lunafreya to look at her. “He showed up in Tenebrae on his way to Gralea. I sent Biggs and Wedge to take him there.”

Perhaps they are who Highwind was asking after.

“Thank you for that,” Lunafreya says. The battle for and against the divine might never be made known to this soldier. But whenever those who fight for the light have stepped into her path, Highwind has proven herself to be an ally to them. “I must thank them as well.”

Highwind stares at her blankly for a few seconds. Then one side of her mouth curls in on itself in a grimace.

“Look, I didn't say anything to him,” Highwind says, “but he could use some good news. He looked like complete shit.”

Lunafreya's eyes widen.

“I— beg your pardon?”

“Noctis.” Creases form between Highwind's eyebrows. “When we get to Gralea, consider telling him you're still around. The two of you could use a win.”

This is odd. Highwind is a stranger to these affairs. She is someone who pulled Lunafreya out of the Altissian sea only because Ravus had begged her to. Lunafreya had requested that Highwind not tell Noctis that she survived. It was a lie, but lying did not seem like it would burden this soldier's conscience.

She had known that Highwind and Noctis were acquaintances. Highwind had said so herself. But Lunafreya had thought it might only be that: a passing acquaintance. Except that Noctis has a way of seeing such things bloom into something greater. He possesses some quality that makes it hard to resist his friendship.

Highwind might be a living weapon. But she is not made from silver.

Lunafreya wants to say _I wish you could have told him._ To say that _it would have been crueler to have him choose between answering the Draconian and searching for me._ Wants to say _he would have made the wrong decision._

_He would have picked me._

“Thank you for not telling him,” Lunafreya says. Does her best to soften her expression. It is a skill she has practised often. A dozen seconds pass before Highwind lets out a sigh and stands up.

“The storm's cleared up,” she says. “It won't take them long to get here. Make sure you've got everything ready to go.”

Lunafreya nods. Stares at Umbra again. His fur is so dark in places. It is the exact shade of Noctis's own hair.

“I will.”


	6. Chapter 6

The pain of losing Tenebrae worsens when Highwind's crew arrives.

The townspeople seem to believe that they are a Niflheim military unit. No one is eager to dispel this assumption. So when the villagers ask why they are there, Highwind's crew is quick to mention the name of some Niflheim official Lunafreya is unfamiliar with. The townspeople recognize it. They receive them gladly. Give them what little the crew asks for: sheets of metal. Spare mechanical parts and a chance to stretch their legs.

In exchange, the townspeople ask for news from the capital. The crew has none to give. 

“No one's answering on their end,” says one of Highwind's officers. Lunafreya is not sure if this is a lie. It is unlikely that they tried to hail Gralean ground control. After all, the crew is largely comprised of Niflheim deserters. It is more plausible that they attempted to contact friends and family left behind in Gralea. Perhaps it is from them that the crew had not received any response.

Then the townspeople ask where they had come from. Ask after what their mission was or is. Lunafreya finds that most crew members answer these questions with a single word: classified.

But some of the personnel have looser lips.

“Just got back from Tenebrae,” one man says to an anxious-looking villager. Lunafreya watches as he readjusts his grip on an enormous checkered sheet of metal. “Place was razed to the ground, you know.”

The townspeople had not known. Now, Lunafreya can sense a shift in their opinion of her. The townsfolk still try to glance furtively at her. Still whisper to each other too quietly for her to catch their words. But even the woman who had housed Lunafreya these last few days has developed a permanent knot between her eyebrows.

It was not just the imperial commander who was to be executed. Tenebrae had received the same sentence.

For all that they glower at her, Lunafreya cannot help but worry that the people here may be in danger too. Niflheim itself reminds her of a cutting board: it is something she does not think anyone should sit too long on. The risk of being cut apart is far too high.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” she says to her hosts. Nods her head. “If you hear nothing from the capital, please, do consider heading to Lucis.” The woman and her family give her puzzled looks. Some of them make noncommittal noises. Lunafreya's smile feels so faint at the edges of her own mouth. This is all that she can do for them. 

The airship will not take off a while yet. Shortly after it landed, Highwind had walked the circumference of the vessel. Then she disappeared into its interior. Lunafreya has not seen her since. Highwind has not been present for the exchanges between the townspeople and her crew. 

Lunafreya stays outside of the airship and out of the way. Voices carry from its depths. They call out to each other terms she does not recognize. Call out numbers she does not understand. She is no mechanic. So there is no expectation that she should help. 

Regardless, she wishes she could. Idleness is a kind of poison: terrible thoughts spill into her veins. Each one suffocates her from the inside out.

Desperate for something to do, Lunafreya approaches the crew members standing idle by or on the ramp to the ship. Some of them lean against the airship's exterior and smoke. She asks them to allow her to attend to whatever injuries they may sustained. Asks for their accounts of Tenebrae.

“Burnt to a crisp,” one man says. Pauses to drag on his cigarette. “There was so much fucking fire. Just a fuck-ton of fire.”

“I-I'd never been there before,” his colleague says. This one stamped out his own cigarette as soon as he saw Lunafreya approach. “I'm sorry, Oracle. You could tell it had been real pretty, once.”

The next person she asks holds a flask in one hand and a phone with no reception in the other. At first, this woman sneers at her.

“What 'transpired'? Just what _transpires_ every-fucking-where.” Her hostility takes Lunafreya by surprise. But then the woman holds out her flask to Lunafreya. It is tempting to take a sip. The Oracular priests had taught her to never refuse what meals she was offered by the people. However, they forbade her from ever touching booze. The only exception to this rule were those ceremonies where alcohol represented something else. Like the labour of humanity. Or the benevolence of the gods.

Lunafreya wonders if whatever is in that flask with scald her throat. The little alcohol she has had in the past only ever contained a hint of acidity. Perhaps this might burn at the same temperature with what burns inside her.

In the end, Lunafreya decides that adding fire to fire would just be remarkably self-indulgent.

She thanks each of them. Then she presses her power into the jammed joints of their fingers. Into a once-dislocated shoulder and all the scrapes on their arms and legs. It is tiring, but it gives her something to do. That much she is glad for.

Two hours later, the airship departs with Lunafreya on-board. Umbra does not join her. He vanished shortly before take-off. She finds herself back in the medical bay. The medical personnel are quietly going over their inventory behind her. All ten of the available cots are empty. Lunafreya places a hand on a naked mattress. This place had once been her sleeping quarters. The medics had insisted that she remain there in case her injury were to reopen. 

It is hard to believe that the Revelation in Altissia happened just weeks ago. It is harder to believe that it has been months since the invasion of Insomnia. It feels more recent than it should. It feels like nothing has changed: the world is still burning from the inside out. Lunafreya half-expects the airship to crack apart right now. Half-expects to feel the filigree of the ring biting into her palm.

For the first in what feels at once to be so-many years ago and only so-many seconds, Lunafreya thinks of Nyx Ulric.

She cannot sense when people have passed from this world. Neither does she need to. She remembers him as she does a meteorite streaking against the sky. All but a single moment of her time with him is a blur.

“Ha, Princess. Should have known you'd be here.” Lunafreya startles. Turning, she finds Highwind stepping in through the door from the hallway. The personnel stop whatever they are doing and stand to attention. Highwind gives them a wave and nods at one crew member in particular. “Need something for motion sickness.”

This surprises Lunafreya. Highwind must catch her look of disbelief, because she rolls her eyes at her. “New recruit,” she says. One of the medics gives Highwind a small bottle. “It's a pain in the ass to break them in, but Jessie thinks he has promise.”

“I see,” Lunafreya replies automatically. Watches as Highwind turns on her heel to head out the door. All of a sudden, Highwind stops. 

“Sky's clear, and we got a good tailwind, so Gralea's only some hours out. If you're wanting to get in some shut-eye, you can use my quarters.”

Then Highwind steps out the door. Shuts it behind her.

* * *

Highwind's quarters are smaller than Lunafreya expected them to be. It is the same size as the personnel quarters she has seen clustered together on the bottom floor of the airship. Those room are just big enough to fit two bunk beds and four lockers inside. 

In Highwind's room, there is only one bunk bed. The top bunk appears to be used for storage. Lunafreya gives it a cursory glance: books, clothing, a battered deck of cards, and odd-shaped things are piled on the bare mattress. She is about to look further when she catches herself. What items Highwind keeps in her room are not her business. So she does not even try to open either of the two lockers situated at the foot of the bed. Does not touch any of the papers on the desk that sits in the place a second bunk bed might have.

The ex-commodore must not be planning on sleeping before their arrival in the capital. Even still, Lunafreya feels a bit guilty as she strips down to a nightdress and crawls into Highwind's bed. She would have stayed in the medical bay again. Except that all of the cots were stripped of their sheets. It seemed impolite to prepare a bed for herself when Highwind had already offered up her own.

Lunafreya suspects that she will not be able to sleep: she has already slept so much as of late. Flames lick the edges of her mind. Yet Highwind's quarters are surprisingly quiet. So she does sleep. Just not deeply enough to dream.

* * *

A knock at the door wakes Lunafreya up. Something is wrong. The airship is about to crumble. She rolls out of bed. Lands on the balls of her feet. 

“Oracle?” Someone calls from the other side. Calmly. In the second it takes her to stand, Lunafreya registers this. The airship is fine. She is fine.

“I am awake,” she calls backs, “Thank you.”

“Lady A wanted me to give you a heads-up,” the voice says. Lunafreya can just barely make out the words. “We'll be landing in the next twenty.”

“I see.” Lunafreya collects the clothing she had slung over the backrest of chair tucked into the desk. Running a finger under the collar of her undershirt, Lunafreya frowns. It is still a bit damp with yesterday's sweat.

She puts it on anyways.

They dock in a hangar inside Zegnautus Keep. With every inch that the door lowers into a ramp, more and more of Gralea comes into view. The open door to the hangar frames a city that touches the horizon. The sun rises from behind skyscrapers and smokestacks into a cloudless sky.

“I would've flown them here myself, if the weather had been half as nice,” Highwind says from behind her. It almost sounds like an apology. Lunafreya casts a glance over her shoulder at her. Highwind's face is turned away as she taps the butt of her lance against the floor. 

On Highwind's orders, someone hands a spear to Lunafreya. It is austere in appearance and light in her hand. Far lighter than the Trident of the Oracle had felt. But it stands about as tall as the trident had. There is something comforting about that. So she does not tell them that she was never trained in arms. That the Trident of the Oracle had not been a weapon to her, but an amplifier for her power.

The edge of the ramp clanks against the concrete floor. Highwind takes the lead down the ramp. Tosses orders left and right. Her people disperse throughout the hangar to do her will. “Princess, you're with me.”

Lunafreya nods and follows her as they round the side of the airship. Ahead of them, three figures appear from double doors leading further into the keep. She cannot make out their faces at this distance. 

Apparently, Highwind can.

“So you found them, huh!”

One of the three figures waves and walks faster than its fellows towards them. Lunafreya is struck by his shock of golden hair. She does not need to be able to see the freckles on his face to know who he is.

Prompto Argentum.

A long time ago, she had written to this stranger. It would be years before she received a reply. It came in the form of a photograph glued to a page in her and Noctis's journal. She recognizes the others from his journal as well: Ignis Scientia by his glasses and high cheekbones. Gladiolus Amicitia by his towering figure alone. 

Noctis is not among them. 

Her hand closes tighter around the shaft of the spear.

“Where's the prince at?” Highwind asks. They all stop just a few feet short of each other. At this distance, Lunafreya can see the freckles on Prompto's face. Can see his bewilderment and fear too. His mouth opens as if to say something. Then shuts suddenly.

“We're,” Ignis says. Pauses. Lunafreya notices the black lenses in his glasses then. The burn scar that creeps out from under it. She swallows hard. “Not entirely sure.”

Gladiolus takes a step forward. Lunafreya matches his step with one of her own.

“He is with the Draconian,” she says before Gladiolus can speak. “The Crystal, did—”

“What?!” Prompto yelps. With wide eyes, Gladiolus draws himself up to his full height. 

“Gladio? Prompto? What is it?” Ignis asks. Turns his head from side to side. Beside her, Highwind crosses her arms. Says nothing. Lunafreya understands. It is unfair to have Highwind explain on her behalf.

“Hello,” she says. A feeling rushes through her. It might be excitement. For so long, these three had lived only in the pages of a book. They had been so charming inside that journal. Now she realizes just how long she has yearned to meet them herself. “It is truly a pleasure to meet you. I am Lunafreya, of—”

“You're alive,” Prompto says breathlessly. His expression transforms from bewilderment to glee. But she does not miss the wrinkle of suspicion between his eyebrows.

“The Oracle?” Ignis asks.

“What's going on here?” Gladiolus asks Highwind. Crosses his arms. Highwind just shakes her head.

“I,” she says. Hesitates. That feeling from before evaporates inside her. Leaves her throat arid. “I survived the Hydraean's Revelation.”

Gladiolus's eyes turn away from her. To Highwind. 

“Did you know?”

“I—”

Lunafreya steps between him and Highwind then.

“No one knew,” she says. “Gentiana rescued me from the waves. I decided then that it would be wise to conceal this fact. I could not risk Niflheim capturing me. Please, if you must blame anyone”— the words are stones in her mouth. Scrape her insides on the way out— “blame me.”

Lunafreya locks her eyes with Gladiolus's own. Feels Highwind's eyes burning holes into the back of her head. This is a battle she is not sure she wants to win. She only knows she has to.

He looks away first. Exhales noisily as he does.

“I won't blame you for doing what you had to,” Gladiolus says. It sounds like he means it. Sounds like he is saying that to more than just her. When she dares herself to look at Ignis and Prompto, she finds the former face hard with resignation. Finds the latter with one end of his mouth pinched in dissatisfaction. Seconds pass in silence. Lunafreya does not think she should be the one to break it.

“You said Noctis was with the Draconian,” Ignis says then. “Where is that, exactly?”

“I will answer your questions to the best of my ability,” Lunafreya says. “But first, answer me this: The Glacian. Did she finds Noctis?”

“Gentiana?” Gladiolus says, “Yeah. You sent her? Uh, pardon.” There is more deference in his tone than she expected. And she had expected none.

“She was not mine to send.” Lunafreya tries not to think of their parting. “Regardless, I am glad to hear that. Now then, could you lead me to the Crystal? I should be able to answer your questions there.”

“Uh, sure...” Prompto says. “Right this way. Ah! I mean, sorry, uh, pardon, ah—”

Ignis sighs and shakes his head. Looking away, Gladiolus snorts.

“It's like you've never talked to royalty before,” Highwind says with a laugh as she steps to Lunafreya's side. “Hey, Princess. Maybe tell him it's alright before he has a heart attack.”

“Hey!” Prompto blushes.

“Should have seen him trying to talk to King Regis,” Gladiolus says. Laughs too. “You bit your tongue, what? Four, five times?” Next to him, Ignis bows his head. His shoulders shake with laughter. 

Prompto spits out a few incoherent consonants as his whole face goes red. This is the boy that Pyrna had chosen to help her. Lunafreya can understand why as she watches him. There is something so wonderful about him. She is just not sure what exactly that _something wonderful_ is.

“Prompto, speak to me as you would Noctis.”

“You sure?”

“Yes,” she says. “Please.”

“Let's get a move on,” Highwind says with a flourish of her hand. “We don't have all day.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for your time!


End file.
